Tell Me More
by Terez
Summary: Headcannon turned story. Aziraphale wants to know just why Crowley won't tell him what he did to make Shakespeare famous, then persistents pays off and the answer is not what is excepted. Fluffy one-shot


**A/N: So Ive kinda fallen in love with Good Omens and disclaimer I own nothing**

**Set some time after the apocalypse that wasn't.**

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**Tell Me More**

"You simply must tell me what you did," Aziraphale pleads as he closes the book in his lap, glancing over across the room at Crowley.

The affronted demon snorts in annoyance as he sets the wine bottle back down on the table, yellow eyes shinning over the tops of his glasses. ''Not this again," he grumbles out in exasperation, gaze shifting to the offending book before flopping back against the couch; arm raised to avoid spilling the wine, pushing his glasses back up the bridge of his nose.

"I don't know why you insist on keeping it a secret," Azriaphale huffs out, sitting up more in his seat with his own glare. "I think I have a right to know."

"A right to know?" Crowley bites out, sitting up again before slamming the full glass of wine down his throat then placing the empty glass on the table. He takes a moment to right himself, making sure his sunglasses are perfectly in place before pulling himself from the couch. Once on relatively stable legs he snatches the wine bottle off the table, placing it to his lips to take another hearty gulp. "What gives you the right to know?" Crowley continues on, fixing him with the best glare he can behind the sunglasses, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand as he moves away from the couch.

"You did it for me—" he starts, trying to explain it slowly.

"Done loads of stuff for you." Crowley retorts leaning forward slightly to keep his balance, yet somehow still moving back further into the shop. Wanting nothing more to do with this conversation.

"This isn't the same,'' the angel argues, shifting more in his seat to keep his eyes on Crowley, watching as the demon winds backwards though out his store. ''Shakespeare is still well known—"

With the shake of the wine bottle Crowley cuts him off again, almost tipping over. "Went a little overboard is all."

"_Crowley_."

It's a conversation they've had a handful of times over the years, and usually they are easy to avoid. It was so simple to storm off having made their arrangements and not see each other for several years, meeting again to discuss new things; but no matter how much time passes it always seems to come back up. And now, now he can't run, they've chosen each other, their side, disappearing for a few decades or centuries isn't an option, not anymore. "I just—'' he still chokes on his words, fighting to hold some ground before it all comes spilling out. ''I offered some...inspiration," he throws out flippantly taking another swig.

"Inspiration?" The angel breaths, getting up from his own chair in excitement, it's the most information he's gotten out of the demon in 400 years. Moving quickly across the room he's unable to stop the smile from splitting across his face as he closes the distance between them.

Crowley stumbles back for a moment, brows raised high at the bust of energy, bottle still firmly between them. ''I-uh, well it's, Uh—.'' He steamers, tripping over his own words and feet, shoulder bumping against a bookcase when the instinct to flee kicks in again. He stands, mouth gapping open, still trying to find the words befroe his shoulders sag in defeat and lips pursed in annoyance that all he can do is hopelessly flounder with Aziraphale standing in front of him, eyes pleading for more. "Romeo and Juliet'' he all but snarls out before taking another drink.

The happy smile falls quickly into a frown and confusion. "Romeo and Juliet?"

"Yeah," Crowley responds quickly, shoving the empty wine bottle into Azriaphales hands and brushing past him, desperate for some space.

"That was written before Hamlet," Aziraphale calls, confusion still evident on his face, watching Crowley move back towards the couch.

Crowley sways about the room unsteadily, the alcohol having exaggerated his unusual gait and cringes with a shrug of his shoulders in response. "Eh, you just scribble a different date in the corner," he throws out simply, writing vaguely in the air before he drops back onto the couch. "Bad record keeping at that time."

"But it was inspired by someone else's work."

Crowley grimaces awkwardly and shifts his shoulder that implies he has everything to do with that.

"But why," Aziraphale pushes again, greedy for more information without waiting for a response, he plows through. "You could of just made Hamlet popular, instead you went to all the work of inspiring a new play.'' He continues excitedly moving closer to the couch. ''One of the most prolific love stories-''

''Rubbish,'' Crowley groans out personally offended, head pressed to the back of the couch and fingers pinched at the bridge of his nose.

''It's incredibly romantic-'' Azriaphale offers supportingly, in argument.

''They both die," Crowley bites out bitterly, with a disgruntled look. ''I wanted a damned comedy,'' he mutters more to himself.

Aziraphale can't help soften slightly, ''My dear that's not the point. It's about lovers going against their own families, going their own way, choosing each-oh'' he cuts himself off this time realization dawning across his face.

Crowley jumps up off the couch again, his glasses askew from the erratic movement, pointing an accusing finger now that he's lost the bottle. ''No oh," he warns sharply.

Azriaphale is unable to stop the small smile when he catches sight of the large bright yellow eyes peaking out behind the top of the glasses, the whites of his eyes entirely swallowed. The smile stretches slightly, cheeks turned pink with a suppressed chuckle as he watches the demon fret about the room uncomfortably, smashing his glasses back to his face. ''Crowley,'' he calls out tenderly.

''Don't,'' he warns sharply, breath hitched in his throat, as Aziraphael advances ever closer. ''Sssstop-" he sallows thickly trying to force the hiss back down his throat, "—looking at me like that Angel, or I sssswear...''

''I suppose I should thank you.'' He says rather abruptly, undeterred by the threat.

Crowley relaxes instantly at the familiar words the tension rolling off his body as he goes all but boneless, when Aziraphale invades his personal space. ''Probably best we not risk it," he responds in the familiar.

''Still that hardly seems fair," Aziraphale responds face alight with joy, eyes brimming with pride and adoration, saying more than words ever could.

Crowley gives a slow, lazy grin in return, voice barley a whisper as he leans in to steal a kiss. ''Oh shut up.''

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**A/N: Please share your thoughts, I'll also be posting this at AO3 once i can set up an account.**


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